


searching our hearts (for so long)

by kendelias (imdeansgirl)



Series: oc trope challenge 2021 [3]
Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Friends, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Enemies, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Original Character(s), Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:54:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29374941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imdeansgirl/pseuds/kendelias
Summary: If the tower was destroyed, and Macbeth never left… The idea gutted him. His heart was destroyed when he’d heard about the tower. For thirteen years of their lives, he and Macbeth were the only ones they could turn to. Kit was the one who laid awake with him, counting stars through barred windows. Kit was the one who wiped his tears. Kit was the one who held him as he wept. If he had died in that tower, a piece of Kit had died with him.
Relationships: Midnight | Macbeth/Original Character(s)
Series: oc trope challenge 2021 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2141550
Kudos: 2





	searching our hearts (for so long)

**Author's Note:**

> hello again. once again, this fic is part of [the oc trope challenge](https://kendelias.tumblr.com/tagged/oc-trope-challenge) on tumblr. i'm still participating over there, so come hang out with me! my username is also [@kendelias](https://kendelias.tumblr.com) there. this is a small part of the official fic for my oc kit varga, who is a wizard at lamia scale and a former captive of the tower of heaven. if you like this fic, you can find more about kit [right here!](https://kendelias.tumblr.com/tagged/kit-varga). in this fic, i also mention weaver, kit's adopted sister, who does not belong to me - she belongs to [ocsandallthatjazz](https://ocsandallthatjazz.tumblr.com) on tumblr!

Kit feels the dusty air enter his lungs, inhaling sharply as another attack lands just behind him. Still, he’s not sure if that’s why he can’t breathe - it could be the pressing weight of anxiety on his chest, too. He’s terrified. He knows Macbeth won’t hurt him, but it’s come close… too close for comfort. As the smoke clears, he sees him: his friend, his best friend, sneering at him across the battlefield. It’s been years - but it’s still Macbeth. He _knows_ it is. Macbeth may have hurt Richard, but he wouldn’t hurt Kit. That he knows is true.

He clears his throat. “I’ve noticed none of your attacks have hit me,” he says, aiming for nonplussed, coming out strangled. The hand at his side grips the bag that’s usually attached to his hip. He could attack now, take the initiative, even pull one of his stronger cards and get the drop on him. But he doesn’t want to win; neither of them winning will really do them any good. All he needs to do is to keep him from going after Lucy and Gray - that, he can do.

Macbeth - Midnight - whatever it is he’s going by now - shrugs. It’s practiced nonchalance; Kit knows the motions well. As someone who’s been haunted by the Tower of Heaven all his life, he knows how to fake being okay. It just takes someone who knows the right buttons to push to send you over the edge. “So I’ve got bad aim,” Macbeth says casually.

There’s a long pause, where Kit considers him. As he said, the casualty isn’t novel to him; he does the same thing every day. Unfortunately for Macbeth, Kit knows the right buttons to push. He juts his chin out and declares, “I know that’s not true.”

As expected, Macbeth’s smirk contorts back into a glare. His handsome face tinges with red, a bright, angry burn on his cheekbones. His anger is rolling off of him in waves, and Kit only briefly thinks to prepare to defend himself from an oncoming attack. “You don’t know anything,” Macbeth spits. Venom laces his words, and if tone could kill, Kit would surely be dead. Macbeth gestures to behind Kit, where Nirvana stands, tall and menacing in the distance. Kit doesn’t bother to look. “If I lose, my father will think I’m unworthy, and abandon me!” He drops his arm, putting his hand on his hip instead, his mouth pulled into a thin line. Then, he adds: “Like you.”

It only makes sense, he supposes. If Kit knows how to push the right buttons, Macbeth does too. Kit feels his composure slip. He almost drops the bag in his hand with the sudden urge to ball his hands into fists. “I never abandoned you,” he yells back. His voice shakes with force and urgency, he knows, but he no longer cares. It is more important to him that Macbeth hear him out than whether or not he shows any weakness. “I would _never_ abandon you!”

Macbeth barely lets him finish. He turns his head away, seething. “I was in Hell - ”

“You don’t think I know?” Kit cuts in. “I was there.”

“Not as long as I was!” Macbeth replies, looking up sharply.

“You _told me_ to go!”

They fall silent, suddenly, the air going still around them. Macbeth freezes, looking at Kit in anger and surprise. It’s almost like he didn’t believe he would ever bring that up. Meanwhile, Kit feels his eyes begin to burn, tears threatening to spill onto his cheeks. His hand grips harder around the bag, and he swallows, willing the tears away. “I never wanted to leave you,” he whispers.

He sees the past in flashes, sometimes, and he certainly sees it now. He wonders if Macbeth sees it too: Kit, gangly and awkward at the age of thirteen, running, bare feet skidding against stone. His blonde hair was dirty and ratty, arms bruised by the grip of the guards from just the day before. There was blood pouring down from his nose, angry and red and raw, but that hardly mattered when the door was just in front of him. The only thing keeping him going, the only thing spurring him on, was the shrieking call of “ _Go!_ ” from just behind him. Macbeth, gathered in the guards’ arms, was certainly not going anywhere. He didn’t seem to care, though; not if Kit could make it out.

“You told me to run,” Kit says now, the children they once were still dancing in his memory. “To go on without you, so I did.”

In the present, Macbeth’s face softens, ever so slightly. Kit can feel his lip quivering, his voice much softer and shaking more harshly than before. He tries to smile as he recalls what happened just after his escape. “I ran all the way to a guild,” he says. He thinks of his sister, who, after this, will welcome him home with open arms, waiting to share the stories of her own mission; he thinks of his parents, who will be glad to see him home safely. Lyon, Jura, even Sherry - they’re all his family. “And a family - my family - took me in, and I found a home.” The fact that that was all due to Macbeth goes unspoken - by the way that his mouth tightens, his lips pressing together tightly, Kit thinks he knows. Macbeth saved his life. He was his best friend. He’ll never forget that. Which is why he says, his voice more clear and confident than it’s been since they’d set sights on each other again, “I thought I lost my home when I lost you.”

Macbeth seems surprised by that. He steps back a little, his former confidence shaken by Kit’s admission. Softly, he says, “You said you’d come back - ”

Kit throws his arms up, angrier now than ever. “You don’t think I tried?!” he shouts. Macbeth stops again, his mouth screwing up in a grimace. Kit barely notices; the heavy thump of his pulse against his skin is deafening, silencing everything else around him. “There were _months_ I would go on missions, dangerous ones, trying to find the tower, and I _never did._ They hid it from me.”

It was ridiculous, he knows now, but he would be damned if he didn’t try. For months at a time, his room would be covered in maps - all missions he’d been on, places where the tower wasn’t. There were red X’s and notes on each of them, talking to himself, telling himself where he’d been and how he could retrace his steps. Sometimes, Weaver would have to draw him out of his room to play games or sit in the garden with her. She never asked, bless her, and he probably wouldn’t have told her at the time if she had - he didn’t want to drag his new family into this mess, too. But for five years, he searched for Macbeth. He’d never wanted to let him go.

Macbeth is shaking his head now though. He seems as if he’s trying to convince himself, to reaffirm what he already knew to be true: that Kit had left him. It makes Kit’s heart plummet in his chest, but he stays strong, refusing to back down. “You ran away,” Macbeth mutters. “You were scared. You’ve been gone five years.”

“And there was never a day I didn’t look for you,” Kit says. His voice is raspy, raw with unshed tears. He swallows and tries again. “When I heard the tower was destroyed, I…” His voice shakes, he knows. He can’t think of that time without feeling the loss all over again.

If the tower was destroyed, and Macbeth never left… He could barely stand to think of him, trapped under all that rubble, or vaporized, or even dead somehow in the five years between then and now. The idea gutted him. His heart was destroyed when he’d heard about the tower, completely ruined, doomed to carry the thought of what could have been forever. For thirteen years of their lives, he and Macbeth were the only ones they could turn to. Macbeth had his pseudo dad, sure - but Brain was terrible. He mocked and jeered him, making him feel like he was worthless. Kit was the one who laid awake with him, counting stars through barred windows, bare arms pressed together, murmuring softly until Macbeth could finally fall asleep. Kit was the one who wiped his tears as a bruise formed on his cheekbone, a harsh hit from a guard who thought he was being mouthy. Kit was the one who held him as he wept, the sounds of Sorano screaming just one room over ringing in both of their ears. If he had died in that tower, a piece of Kit had died with him.

Kit clears his throat again, willing the tightness away before he continues. “I was so scared,” he admits. Macbeth’s resolve instantly softens, his mouth going lax and brows tightening. It almost looks like worry. Kit could laugh. “I’ve always been scared. I was scared of losing you and now I _lost you_ and I’m terrified.”

His admission hangs between them, a vicious pendulum in the makeshift arena they’ve built. Macbeth looks confused, and hurt, and sad - and Kit can’t say that he doesn’t feel the same. After a long moment, Macbeth nods. Then, he stands his ground, his stance shifting to attack. Kit feels his heart stop for a moment, terror racing through his veins as he realizes the fight has to continue. One of them _has_ to win. “I won’t let my father down. Not after all he’s done for me,” Macbeth says. His tone is firm, and cold. The passion of just a few moments ago is almost completely gone.

Kit squares his shoulders. “I can’t let my guild down,” he says, evenly. “Not after all they’ve done for _me._ ”

Macbeth nods in acceptance. This is the moment - the moment that draws the lines in the sand between them. Quickly, Macbeth begins shimmering out of existence, disappearing, his magic just as Kit remembers it. Well, it takes two to tango. Kit retrieves his cards from his bag and activates them. He feels the game magic thrumming through him, each of the cards in his hands coming to life. The magic is clearly tinged with concern for him. The cards are stiff with worry. They feel his distress and he can’t blame them for being afraid. He can hardly keep the shake out of his voice when he says, “I’d like to play a game.”

His magic prepares itself, golden, shimmering lettering appearing in the air above him. He hears Macbeth growl, “No,” before Kit speaks again.

“Rule number one,” he announces. “You have to stay where I can see you.” Macbeth reappears out of thin air, his eyes wide as they dart around and survey the area for an escape. Kit pays no mind, continuing. “Rule number two - ”

“I have to prove to him that I’m worthy!” Macbeth screams suddenly. Kit swallows, watching as the golden writing in the air pauses, waiting for his next command. “If I don’t, he’ll cast me out!”

Kit ignores him, moving on to announce the most important rule. “Rule number two: neither of us do anything we’ll regret.”

Macbeth looks frantic now, stumbling closer and holding his arms out. “He’ll _leave me, Kit._ ” Genuine fear is behind his words, and Kit feels his heart break all over again.

“And rule number three,” he says finally, “we both walk out of here alive.” His magic is confused by that, he can tell; the gold script wavers in the air, writing out his final rule hesitantly. With his magic, Kit’s rules must be obeyed by everyone playing the game. He’ll be damned if he lets Macbeth die on him again. He pulls a card - the Jack of Clubs. Perfect. This will distract him. He throws it out, activating him and watching as he takes shape and stands between them. “Rise, Jack of Clubs!”

The Jack takes his clubs from his sides and plunges them into the ground. It rumbles angrily, shaking as it begins to crack beneath them, out towards Macbeth. Macbeth groans, an angry guttural noise from his chest, as the attack throws him back into the air. Kit merely prepares his next move.

The battle lines are drawn. It’s a shame they couldn’t be on the same side this time.


End file.
